No Fishing Past June, Part I

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

-Robert Frost

Riddles are keyholes; Their first words are the key.

-The Cattlemen’s Cipher

THE first day of summer break, and I'd promised Sasha we'd share the afternoon at Lake Lowell.

“No Swimming After May, No Fishing Past June,” Sasha moans as she reads the worn weathered sign nailed to the dock post. “Seriously?” 

“Sorry kiddo, them’s the rules.” I say and paw at her braid.

“Dad! Stop, it took me an hour to get this right.” She slaps my hand away. “Now Im going to be stuck watching Turd Burgler for nothing.” 

“Hey, your brother’s name is Mikey,” I wag my finger, “And relax, your Dad’s not a cheapskate. How about I pay you this time. Say ten bucks?”

“I’m going to stream the child abuse you’re exposing me to.” Sasha mumbles as she pulls out her cell phone.

“Okay! Twenty,” I check my wallet for cash, “Okay Twenty-three fifty. That’s all I got.”

"Deal!" She instantly smiles, and I slip her the cash as we climb back into the family station wagon. As I turn the ignition, a park ranger pulls beside us in a faded red jeep and waves. I roll down the window, and he smiles as he squats beside our car. 

“Howdy folks,” Our tiny forms are reflected in his silver-rimmed sunglasses, “You didn’t pull any fish outta here today did you?”

“No, no. We saw the sign.” I smile nervously, “Though I’m a bit curious why the season is so short.”

"You must be new to Star." the Ranger replies; concern sweeps across his face before an easy smile replaces it. "The algae bloom in the summer gets pretty toxic, as do the trout and anything else swimming at the bottom - eat one and you'll find yourself in the county E.R. come morning."

“Sounds like you have a cyanobacteria problem,” I nod.

“A cyno-what?”

“Bacteria, it’s probably what's causing those algae blooms - real shame too, the lake is beautiful. You may want to try chytrids - there a type of aquatic fungi that will break up the algae fairly quickly.”

He tilts his head a bit, and that smile seems to weaken.

“Sorry, I’m a horticulturist - Scott Jenkins.” I nod at my disinterested daughter, her face fully immersed in social media, “This is Sasha, my daughter.”

"Well, Mr. Jenkins," the Ranger stands again, giving me a perfect view of his Colt .45 pistol, sitting loosely in its holster. "I will sure pass that along to my superiors. When'd you folks move to the area?"

“Just last December. Bought the old Sherwood Ranch, just past the Lazy-J cattle lot off Highway Ten.”

"Hell," the Ranger's demeanor softens, "You should've told me you were raising cattle. Randy Sherwood's stock are sorely missed."

“No,” I shake my head, “No, I’m no rancher. I’m turning the place into a nursery, actually. I cultivate roses, perennials, that sort of thing.”

“You’re going to be hard-pressed to see them grow in this soil. Cattle’s a better bet - always has been in this neck of the woods.”

“Well, we’re going to give it our best shot.” I say and check my watch, hoping he takes the hint. “Thanks for the tip though.”

"As long as your crop isn't delivered in dime bags, you're free to grow what you want I guess." The Ranger turns, "But remember, as far as the lake goes, stay clear till November. That's when it sleeps."

Odd choice of words. I want to correct him, inform him that algae don't go fully dormant in the winter, but it's not worth my time, and the last thing I want is to annoy the locals. We're new, and we need to try and fit in. At least that's what I've told my wife, Lorelai, and the kids. As I wave and pull the car away, I look in the rearview to see the Ranger speaking into his walkie, reciting my plate number to whoever's listening.  

* * * *

DEEP below the horizon topsoil, I find a fetid root system as black and leathery as rotten skin. The fact it sprouts greasy tendrils up and not down and chokes my Bukavu hybrid roses within days baffles me. 

“You okay?” Lorelai asks as she wraps her arms around my waist. 

But I barely notice as I peer into my grounded planter boxes, stunned my prize plants are fairing so badly. “He wasn’t kidding.”

“That ranger you mentioned?” Lorelai peers over my shoulder as she watches my hands struggle to rip the black roots from the ground. “Yeah, seems odd. But I guess he’d know. Why don’t you grab some weed killer from that Reggie’s shop in town? That stuff looks nasty.”

“Yeah I want a sample first.” I mutter after ripping a bit free and holding it up to the sun. It shrinks and curls in my hand like a salted snail. “This stuff doesn’t look right.”

"You'll figure it out," she squeezes me and withdraws to deal with the racket Mikey is making with a kitchen pot and a spoon, "You always do."

The town of Star is wholly unremarkable, save for the prairie grass and farm fields that surround it like a sea of gold and green. During the day you’ll find a slice of home-grown Americana in every window of the red brick storefronts and park gazebos shading the summer tourists as they pass. But at night the lights blink out early, like crickets sensing the approach of heavy feet. 

Reggie's Feed & Garden is little more than a barn with some new white paint and floral displays. It's kitschy and filled with cheap shiplap signs, low-quality gardening gear, a plethora of pots, and vintage milk bottles to rival any HGTV show; somewhere we'd probably love to shop at back in L.A. The clerk, Jimmy Justus, is of no help whatsoever.

"Yeah, I guess the high-yield stuff in that brown sprayer is your best bet," Jimmy says without looking up from his phone. His name tag purports he's there to serve, but I have my doubts. "Supposed to work on weeds I think."

“The 2 - 4D? Yeah, that’s a herbicide, but I’ve already tried that. It doesn’t.” I insist. “I mean look at this thing.” I hold the withered black root in my fingers. “Does this look like a normal weed?”

“Sorry man,” Jimmy gives me a bored shrug, “I’m not a flower expert.” 

"This isn't a flower. It's totally invasive." I grit my teeth and smile. For the first time, I catch his eyes and see one is a silvery blue, one is brown—a striking feature on an otherwise ordinary kid.

"Hold on," Jimmy sighs, holds his phone up, and snaps a shot of it. "Let me see what the app says." He scans his screen. “Weird. It says unknown.”

"It's Uncommon Plantain Root," Jimmy's corpulent manager calls out as he emerges from the stock room carrying weathered wall decor with Bible verses and inspirational messages. He sets them down with a sigh and pushes the sliding glasses up his nose. Sweat drips from his forehead, and he smiles, revealing a wide gap at his front teeth. "Jimmy, did you tell the customer about our two-for-one 50% off summer clearance sale?"

Jimmy rolls his eyes and dryly repeats, “Did you know we have a two-for-one 50% off summer clearance sale going on?”

"Oh, uh, no." I smile at Jimmy. We've all had one of these jobs at some point. 

“Well, now you do,” Jimmy says. “And yeah, the app doesn’t know what to make of it. You may want to try the library. Probably a book or two on that kind of thing. It looks weird as hell to me.”

"Jimmy!" his manager snaps, "Language." He looks up at me with a wry smile. "Jimmy's new to the job" He leans in and whispers, "part of our local juvenile rehab program, but with this pandemic, beggars can't be choosers, am I right?"

“So an uncommon plantain, huh?” I know the man’s wrong, but I want to hear his thoughts.

“Oh yeah. Don’t ask me why they’re called uncommon,” the manager continues, “they’ve grown here as long as I can remember, and right now they have a beautiful red bloom. A lot of folks just let them be. You might wanna do the same. They’ll keep the flies out of your garden. I guess they got a bit of flytrap in em’.”

“Well if they’re invasive I’ll have to cull them,” I say and watch a familiar concern wash across his face. “I run a nursery.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose again and studies me, "Yeah, well. Good luck with that. You'd be better served with cattle. We could always use more meat in the market." He pulls a sign from the stack that reads, Sometimes The Old Ways Are Best. 

"Sage advice, Mr. Jenkins. Sure you don't want one? 50% off" He smiles. I tell him no thanks and head for the door with a disquieted feeling brewing in my stomach.

It only occurs to me as I pull away from the parking lot I never gave him my name. 

* * * *  

"ONE bird." Mikey reads aloud from his favorite primer and points at the image of a bluejay. "Two birds. Three birds. Floor!" 

"Four, sweetie." Lorelai says as she holds him in her lap, "But very, very good!"

I scan our property line and let my eyes jump from tree top to tree top. Each is verdant and healthy, save for one odd note. “Honey, have you noticed there are no birds anywhere? I mean it’s spring you’d think they’d be out in full force.”

Lorelai sets Mikey down and stands next to me to scan the horizon. “Yeah, it does seem a little quiet out there. I haven't seen any squirrels lately either, come to think of it. Are they still hibernating?”

"Mom, Dad!" Sasha calls from the backyard and runs into the house, holding a red bloom in one hand and her nose in the other. A pungent rot fills the room, and Mikey cries as if he's been stung by it. 

“Oh God, honey take that outside.” Lorelai points to the door as she leans in to comfort him.

"It's so gross!" Sasha nods and dropkicks it through the doorway to the back porch.

I follow her out and scoop it up in my hands. Red fluid leaks onto my fingers as I study the bud. It's quite unlike any plant I've ever seen. Large leather petals with micro-fine hairs run across its crimson sunburst face, and when I touch its center, the leaves fold around my finger, and I feel a prick. 

"Shit." I drop the bud and see a drop of my blood form at the tip of my index. "Is there a thorn in there?" I tentatively pick it up again and see the smallest fragment of a fang disappear beneath its sepals. The stigma opens like an eyelid, and a tiny black pupil appears past the petals.  

“It’s got teeth!” Sasha screams. “So cool!” 

"No, hon. Not cool." I tell her and look around. The buds have grown at the outskirts of the lawn line. Hungry red blooms are everywhere. "Do me a favor and don't touch these. In fact, don't even play near them."

"Dad, they're not going to eat me." Sasha calmly states, "I'm way bigger than…."

“Don’t talk back Sasha, just do as I say.” I hold her gaze. “I mean it.”

"Fine, grouch." Sasha mumbles and heads back inside.

I take the bud and head to my greenhouse. I lay the decapitated bloom next to the solitary rose I've grown and rummage through the stack of unpacked boxes I have yet to organize. I finally find my Encyclopedia of Horticulture and scan through the pages. The index leads me to invasive organisms and toxic flora.

"Uncommon Drosera fly traps have been found in the Amazon, some large enough to capture and digest small mammals and fowl," I read aloud. "Well, that may explain the birds…." But the root system is all wrong. I pull a multi-tool from the same box and flip open the blade. I need another sample.

Striding out of the greenhouse to the closest patch of red blooms, I notice that they have opened as if expecting a meal. I kneel at one and yank it up. Carving my blade deep into the soil and ripping both bud and root free.

A soft hiss carries in the breeze, and now a hundred stemmed buds are closed and stirring as if they too felt the jab. I back away with their fallen brother in my hand and shake off the feeling they're watching my every step. 

When I return to my workbench, I find Sasha's bud has engulfed my rose, and as I pry it off the flower, I see only a decimated stem remains.

[Read Part II by visiting my Reedsy profile]